


to you, forever ago

by asiunz (orphan_account)



Category: Goyo: Ang Batang Heneral (2018), Heneral Luna (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dysfunctional Relationships, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Memory Alteration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 14:08:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16306658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/asiunz
Summary: Apolinario Mabini has had Emilio Aguinaldo erased from his memory. Please never mention their relationship to him again. Thank you.; in which it suffices to say that pole was unhappy and wanted to move on. lacuna incorporated provided that possibility to him. miong wants the same thing.





	to you, forever ago

**Author's Note:**

> this is an eternal sunshine of the spotless minds au! u really dont need to have seen the film to understand this fic just know that im sad and upset over this yay! :D

Miong goes to Bolinao.

And he doesn’t know why. He wasn’t thinking of a  _why_  when he made the spur of the moment decision to hop on a bus to Pangasinan that morning. He thought a reason wasn’t important anyway. He had just woken up from another tormenting dream which always leaves that ever-present ache in the middle of his chest and the thing is –

The dreams are always the same, pointless ones, a series of blurry non-linear scenes he doesn’t understand, filled with things he doesn’t know about. The dreams always cause him, more often than not, to cry until he’s cold and heaving and the entirety of his body is shaking and so he’d stumble on his own feet when he stands and grabs the packet of cigarette he leaves on his nightstand every night before he goes to sleep and then he’d go outside to smoke until his lungs can’t handle the nicotine anymore.

But most of the time, when he’s too tired to stay up, he’d just grab a beer or two – or really, just however is enough to knock him off the moment he falls on his bed again.

_Bolinao. Dawn._

He’s not an impulsive person.

The quiet ride has allowed him to think about what he’s doing. Even though he feels ridiculous for following the voice that isn’t his own that floats in his subconscious and is praising him for overcoming his indecisiveness.

He glances at the time in his watch. 4:32 am.

Miong is a big believer that  _nothing good happens at past 2 am_.

It seems as though most people have the same idea. There’s only two other passengers on the bus; an old man with his with six boxes in the seat next to him, and a guy who’s definitely not younger than he is with a sloppy hairstyle and his face pressed on the window.

Miong wonders about their stories.

He isn’t sure what his own is. He can’t help but think that there is something missing. Something that still hasn’t happened.

And so, he waits.

 

* * *

 

Even after the breakup – three years edging on four – people had asked Miong if it was hard loving Pole. Awful, flighty, anxious.

Sometimes when it’s just him and the world, he drives to the park and sits on the benches, knowing Pole is out there somewhere, and breathing. It’s like staring at the sun when it comes to touching Pole’s heart. It burns. He burns. The fire doesn’t stop.

“Love me,” Pole says without saying.

“I am,” Miong murmurs. In the only way he knows how. “I am.”

(The answer is no. it was never hard. It  _is_  never hard.)

 

* * *

_Dear Mr. Aguinaldo,_

_**Apolinario Mabini**  has had  **Emilio Aguinaldo** erased from his memory. Please never mention their relationship to him again. Thank you. _

 

After the initial shock from the letter, Miong thinks to himself that he should have seen it coming. Pole has always had to have the last word. Leave it to him to create the ultimate  _final_  word between them, making it so Miong can never respond.

Miong thought that this whole memory erasure procedure was silly. Sure, he’s received a fair share of similar letters about people who have their memories wiped clean (don’t mention Antonio to Isabel, and even though they are friends now, don’t mention about  _before_. Isabel won’t remember), but Miong has never thought that he will soon be a target for elimination – he thought he’d get more than just a piece of paper that everyone else who knows them will get. A letter that says  _you_  have been erased from Pole’s memory, please never mention  _your_  relationship to him again.

Miong goes to visit Pepe, because if anyone knew Pole was going to do this, he would’ve.

He has a letter too,  _Dear Mr. Rizal, Apolinario Mabini has had Emilio Aguinaldo erased from his memory_  –

“You can’t make him remember,” Pepe says. “You hurt Pole. You might as well have killed him.”

“He was the one who started it,” Miong says, and then adds, “And finished it, too, apparently.”

A muscle in Pepe’s cheek twitches and Miong can’t bear to look him in the eye when he says, “See, this is what he was talking about. You just couldn’t let things go.”

Miong starts to physically hurt. It hurts somewhere behind his ribcage. “I can’t believe that he hates me so much that he would do this.”

When he returns his gaze to Pepe, he’s no longer angry – he just looks  _sad_.

“Pole didn’t – he doesn’t hate you,” Pepe says. “And that’s the point.”

“Where is it?” he demands, tearing to his feet.

“Where’s what?” Pepe asks. “Miong?”

“Lacuna,” Miong says, trying not to let his voice break, “I need the address.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Pepe.”

“What are you going to do anyway? Pole doesn’t know who you are anymore.”

“My heart is in  _fucking_  pieces right now. I’ll erase him and I’ll be happy,” Miong cracks. “Pepe, please, I—“

“In the morning,” Pepe says. “You can do whatever you want, okay?” He gathers Miong up in his arms.  _Just not tonight._

“Pepe?”

“Yeah?”

_It hurts._

 

Miong isn’t stupid enough to confront Pole about it.

He’s in the book shop on Second Street during Pole’s Friday shift when he sees him for the first time in a month.

Miong’s holding onto a book he’s been meaning to buy for weeks because he's not willing to go out of his way to go when Pole isn’t there, no matter how much he wants to avoid him. He knows, but never wants to admit, the fact that he stays away because if he sees Pole once, he won’t be able to stop.

“Do you need help?” someone asks, and the voice is straight out of Miong’s nightmares. The consonants slightly flat, sounding like they’re spoken around a smile. Miong looks up from where he’s rummaging through new arrivals and into the face of one Apolinario Mabini.

Miong’s hand goes slack on the hardbound he’s clutching. He’s forgotten how beautiful Pole is, even when he’s standing a polite distance away (he's been nothing but professional at work, he knows). He hasn’t treated Miong like a stranger for years now, and it feels wrong to be here, knowing something he doesn’t, itching under his skin.

Pole's eyes are wide, brown, creased in the lids. His skin is still warm, even under the ugly fluorescents of store lighting, and his outfit isn’t anything particularly becoming, but Miong feels like he’s never looked better. He swallows, shifting his weight to the heel of his back foot and tries to think of an excuse to make him leave or make him stay; Miong doesn’t know which one he wants anymore.

“No,” Miong stumbles, tugging awkwardly at his lower lip, “I’m okay – I’ve been here before.”

“Okay,” Pole chirps, ducking his head, “I’ll be at the counter,” he points to the register behind him, “So let me know if you need help later,” he says.

“Yeah,” Miong replies faintly, clutching onto the edge of the book hard enough to hurt.

He watches Pole amble back to his desk and pull out a stool to sit in, legs crossing in the way he always does. Something in Miong’s cheeks feel like they’ve been punched bruised, his teeth spilling out against his tongue and the scuffed up tile.

The thing is, Miong’s always been half-empty and loving Pole hadn’t changed much, but there’s a feeling of sediment seeping back into his chest when he watches the shape of him behind the computer. The way he turns magazine pages, his spindle-fingers blurring across the keyboard, his feet tapping gently against the cupboards by his knee as he swings his leg back and forth. It’s an old habit of his, too much energy he’s unable to dispel.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. He should be over this. He’s been done with Pole for a while, and it’s never been clearer that he feels the same about Miong, but there’s something else that can’t be denied. It’s a sunflower to the light: Miong’s face twisted up into the orbit of his presence because old habits die hard, but is this really something he learns or something he’s born with?

Miong looks away when Pole glances up, averting his eyes quick. He puts the book back on the shelf. He puts his earbuds in, straightening out the collar of his shirt. When he slips his way out the door, he tucks his arms close to each other and says, “I miss you,” quickly, almost ashamed, the words stolen from his lips the minute they leave his mouth.

He heads down the street, fingers clutched around Pepe’s card in his pocket, phone trilling out directions in his ears. Miong, with single-minded focus, cutting his way through the city.

The book shop on second is a lead weight in his back pocket, but Miong doesn’t look back. He can’t. He won’t.

 

 

Pole may not have hated him, but Miong hates him. He hates that Pole has done this to him, that Pole could have written him out of his life this easily. He hates that Pole left an impression, and while Pole can just go and  _forget_ , Miong is left to live with the effect of Pole’s life on his.

He feels – fragile.

And it leaves one option.

It’s promised that after, Miong will not remember Pole. To Miong, it will be like Pole has never existed – his memories will be edited so Pole won’t be connected to parts of his life Pole was in, and the memories that solely consist of Pole will be removed, one by one.

“Will it hurt?” Miong asks.

“It’s a painless procedure,” the technician says as he hooks up Miong to the machine, connecting the wires to the electrodes on his skin. “You won’t feel anything.”

Miong shakes his head. “No, I mean – will  _I_  hurt after this? Like I do now?” he asks and the quiet of his voice surprises him. And the technician understands, he smiles at him, sadly. Miong supposes that he’s seen a lot of people hurt, and fall out of love.

It’s a good thing there’s an easy way to forget.

Loving Pole hurt – and yes, Miong knows that even though he hates him he still loves him, too.

That is why he needs to do this.

In his hands, he holds the last memory of Pole that he has – a letter that Pole left on the nightstand when he left and never came back.

It is a parade of goodbyes Pole made for Miong.

Goodbye comes from clipped replies when they talk. Goodbye comes from leaving the doors unlocked and the lights on. Goodbye comes from empty spaces on the dining table. It comes on Christmas Day, December 25th. Miong wakes up with the unbothered side of the bed for the third time in the week.

Goodbye comes from a letter left containing everything left unsaid. Miong has read it too many times that he has already memorized every words, every syllable, every period.  _I’m sorry_ , it says. Pole tells him  _I’m sorry_  a million of times. He tells him  _This was a mistake_  and  _You only care about yourself_  and  _See you on the other side_. Pole tells him  _I loved you_  which bleeds through every single places in Miong’s body which Pole has touched.  _I loved you_ , Pole says.

And Miong bleeds.

“Does it hurt?” Miong repeats. He needs to know – will he still ache for Pole, even when Pole doesn’t remember him?

The technician pats his shoulder. “It does, until it doesn’t anymore.”

Miong doesn’t really have time to contemplate what that means or if he even wants that pain to stop, because the lights start to dim and he’s being told, “Think of when you first met Apolinario Mabini.”

The memory comes easy.

 

* * *

 

 

Pole had found him.

Miong remembers it clearly; Pole walking up to him, asking, “You’re Emilio, right?” and going into a diatribe about how he’s heard about Miong from Pepe and Andoy, and how he’s been wanting to meet him for months.

The memory is strong, so vivid, it’s like Miong is living it again. Pole is right there, right  _here_  – hair pulled back, needing trim, and eyes bright and shining as he talks about himself, his spirit contagious. Miong had been impressed by Pole from the start and now he is all over again, and for a moment he forgets the anger he feels for him because fondness overwhelms.

He listens, and listens, because he wants to be able to process every moment of Pole, he wants to savor every detail, and he’s missed Pole’s smile so much –

—but then the memory ends, and fades away.

 

 

Miong falls in love too easily.

He remembers falling in love with Pole  _too_  quickly.

And by that he means: he remembers the jolt of that feeling; he remembers that the process had been fast.

At the time, Miong hadn’t thought of it as being in love – he wouldn’t let himself, because if he loved Pole that means it would hurt more when he loses him (and he was right, Miong thinks, he lost him). But there is nothing else to describe it. Pole engraved himself into Miong’s heart, made himself necessary. He loved Pole more than he ever felt possible. Miong loved his smile, his charm, the softness of his thighs, his  _passion_ , and he secretly loved all the things about Pole he pretended to be annoyed by, like: his long rambling text messages, the way he’d shove his cold feet against Miong’s when they were in bed, how he always had something to say because he could  _never_  shut up.

And Miong knew that Pole loved him, too – Pole talked about not wanting to waste his time, and because he chose to spend his time with Miong, Miong felt valuable. Loved. And he knows Pole loved him because Pole had told him all the time, quiet, I love you, whispered against his chest when he thought he was sleeping, or loud declarations ( _“I fucking love Emilio Aguinaldo!”_ ) shouted across streets that made Miong turn away, his face flush hot.

It had felt suffocating. Having Pole’s compassion was a responsibility – a responsibility that began to feel like a burden, in a way, because failing Pole’s expectations was something he didn’t consider.

 _You were the one who sabotaged this relationship_ , Miong remembers Pole telling him.

But he had been wrong – they were doomed from the start.

 

 

“You didn’t have to stop,” Pole tells him, and his voice is fond in a way Miong hasn’t heard in a while.

He looks up from the keys, surprised, ivory melted under his fingertips. Pole leans against the open door of room, hands stuffed into his pocket, smile teasing his lips. He makes sure Miong is watching before he raises an arm to knock softly against the wall.

“Can I come in?” he asks quietly, hooking one ankle over the other.

“Yeah.”

“Thanks,” Pole says, and wanders like he hasn’t already spent years in here.

The piano bench is enough for the two of them to sit on both end and not touch, but Pole pushes close and Miong lets him, slipping a hand off the keys to tangle with his, shoulder bumping. It’s been a while since the two of them had time to be together like this (alone). It should be ugly romantic, but Miong has stopped caring for a while and is, instead, hyper-focused on the pressed of Pole’s body against his.

“Is it cold outside?” Miong murmurs after a while, turning his head so that he’s caught up in Pole’s profile.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Pole laughs, “I looked so stupid getting rained on.”

Miong gets an aborted sound, and reaches over to cup Pole’s cold cheeks in his hands.

“Come here then,” he smiles, leaning up to smile at him, quiet; soft, Pole’s skin is freezing. “Let me warm you up.”

 

 

The remnants of memories are harder to hold on to. They slip away from Miong’s grasp before he even has the chance to experience them, before he can even know what he is losing. He’s losing them so fast, and now there are holes in his memory where he knows there once was information about Pole carefully filed away. He can’t remember where Pole is from – he knows that it’s from somewhere from the south but he can’t remember exactly where, and he can’t remember Pole’s birthday, or where they went for their first date, or if he even liked the rain or not.

“You asked for this,” Pole tells him – but that doesn’t make sense, it’s not Pole. It can’t be.

Miong guesses that Pole has now taken from his subconscious.

Pole-as-his-subconscious frowns, “You always recoil from confrontation, so I’m not surprised at all you made it so you won’t have to think about me.”

“You’re not real,” Miong says, “It doesn’t matter what you think.”

“Tell me,” Not-Pole smirks, in a way that’s too familiar to be real Pole. “If you’re so desperate to get rid of me –“

“You’re not  _my_  Pole –“

“ _Your_ Pole?” this Pole asks, and Miong flushes because yes, his Pole. The one whose smile made him feel fluttery inside, the one who he thought would be enough, the one he wounded, the one who weighs heavy on his heart and mind.

The Pole shrugs and continues, “If you are so desperate to get rid of Apolinario Mabini, then why do you keep clinging to these memories?”

Miong doesn’t have a good answer.

 

 

Pole hits him.

Miong sees the fist, the poor aim, the arm, and catches the punch in the side of his jaw without a word. He doesn’t move until the force of Pole’s knuckles stain against his teeth and send him staggering into the kitchen counter, two hands scrambling for purchase on the granite.

Pepe’s out of his seat in a second, but Andoy puts a hand on his arm to stop him.

“Where the hell were you?” Pole asks, and his voice shakes. His features are twisted with anger, brows pinched as he struggles around the words.

Miong’s still dizzy; elbow throbbing from where it’d made hard contact with the floor. He hasn’t put in his contacts today (he’d forgotten, like many things he told himself not to) and his vision ripples, warps. Pole stands above him, some god under the halo of Tonio’s apartment lighting.

“I waited for you,” Pole bites out, voice shaking, “For six days, and you didn’t once answer my texts. You never picked up the phone-”

“Pole,” Miong slurs, shaking his head. “I can explain.”

“You can always explain,” he shoots back.

Miong closes his eyes, slumps back against the hardwood. The past week skitters by in his head: the blues and purples, neon orange and vomit hitting the back of his throat.

“Pole, you don’t understand.”

“Then help me,” he says, but even those words seem dead, “Miong –”

The entirety of the house knows that things have been fucked up bad this time, and they’ve already had a milder version of this conversation at the beginning of their relationship, things set on an electric live wire between the two of them.

“I care about you,” Pole grits out like it hurts, “But you keep treating me like I’m expendable.” Miong’s raw knuckled fingers are limp by his sides. He takes the blows without lifting bruised forearms, lets him dig as deep as he wants. Some terrible, masochistic part of Miong wants to know how bad it can get. How brutal Pole can be. “You keep acting like I can’t help you.”

“You can’t.”

“But you’re not even letting me try!” Pole bursts out, “You go on and on about this communication bullshit and healthy relationships, but you don’t even tell me why you’re hurt,” his voice cracks. “And you disappear for days on end and leave me sitting here worrying about you and feeling so fucking useless –”

“You want to know useless?” Miong cuts off. He’s close to grabbing Pole by the dumb fucking collar and shoving him against the wall, “It’s how you feel when your boyfriend –” the word turns mocking and high-pitched between his lips, “has commitment issues and it takes him a year to admit he wants this to be serious, let alone take up your offer of moving in.”

“Miong, I can’t change that,” he says. “But I'm trying, and I feel like that’s more than I can say about you.”

“Don’t make your problems about me.”

“Then what else am I supposed to do?” Pole yells, “I’m not someone you can show up and take to bed and toss aside when you’re done.”

“I never said you were!”

“Then fucking act like it –”

“I am!” Miong yells back, feeling something splinter from the pier, “You’re so fucking desperate, Pole. Why do you think you keep calling me to walk you through your goddamn panic attacks, huh? You aren’t some fucking child anymore –”

“At least I trust you with my issues; you’re just sitting there pretending like I can’t see that you’re clearly not okay –”

“That’s not the fucking problem, and you know it!”

“Then what is it?”

“You think I need someone like you to keep me alive,” Miong spits. “But I’ve been fine my whole fucking life without your help!”

“Don't say stuff like that –”

“You’re fucking useless, Pole,” Miong yells, “I don’t need you!”

“Miong!” Pepe snaps. His chair squeals against the floor as it skitters behind him, nearly toppling over when he stands.

The apartment air feels like it’s been frozen. Pole looks like he can’t settle on an expression, his whole face a map of confusion; hurt. Someone jostles Miong’s shoulder, and it snaps in tight, people yelling in the background.

The lights start going off around the two of them, and Pepe eventually blurs into nothing, dissolving quietly into the background like he was never there. The dining room peels off in glass, the table behind them sinking into the floor.

Then it’s just Pole and Miong, three feet apart, a curtain of spotlight curling down around their shoulders.

Rain is starting to fall, flaking down from the sky. Miong looks up when a raindrop lands on his eyelash, startled, and the water has rolled in so deep the color is inked in black. White noise rolls like waves in his ears.

Miong tears his eyes away, looks down. He meets nothing but darkness and the sound of his own footsteps.

 

 

The apartment has been getting colder lately.

Miong, crashing at Tonio’s because he can’t be alone in the house with Pole, and Pole sleeping on the couch because he can’t be alone in the bedroom with Miong. Things go around and around, funnelling down the drain like morning coffee.

He doesn’t bother pouring Miong a cup before leaving for work.

 

 

Miong comes to with Pole’s head on his chest. A few seconds later, Miong realizes that they’re in their bed — meaning that this memory takes place after they had moved in together. There’s their mixed stack of books on the floor. There’s Miong’s sweater that Pole had claimed as his own.

There’s the nightstand that took them a week to figure out how to put together. There’s Pole, naked, and snug in his arms.

It’s all so real.

Miong wants to enjoy this moment for as long as possible, when their animosity for each other didn’t outweigh their affection. It kind of feels wrong, like he’s taking advantage of the situation, but this already happened — and Pole doesn’t know him anymore, so he can’t be angry with him for it.

Too soon, Pole stirs, yawns, and shifts so he’s looking up at Miong. “G’morning,” he murmurs, and reaches to kiss Miong.

“Hey,” Miong says. When he returns Pole’s kiss he feels sick to his stomach. How could they go from this, to where they ended up?

He doesn’t have long to consider it, because Pole sits up in bed. The covers fall from his shoulders to around his waist, displaying a splattering of hickeys on his stomach that Miong knows he must have put there himself, at one time.

“Do you know what today is?” Pole asks, and Miong shakes his head because no, he doesn’t know. There’s nothing that gives him an inkling about when this particular memory takes place.

“It’s Wednesday,” Pole says, and he slowly crawls up Miong’s body until he’s leaning over him, his hair parted as curtains on either side of his face. “Which means we have no work.”

 _Right_. Miong remembers this time. Well, not this specific time, but the time period in which it occurs — that one wonderful month when they arranged their schedules to have a day off in the middle of the week. There were a lot of lazy mornings like this, when they had nothing but time for each other.

(Miong wishes the memory of waking up to an empty bed and missing Pole would be one of the ones to leave.)

“What do you suggest we do with our abundant free-time?” Miong asks, grinning and looking up at Pole. He’s playing the game.

Pole tucks his head to bite at Miong’s collarbone, and then says against his skin, “I thought that maybe you’d fuck me.” He shakes his head to toss his hair back and out of his face in what quite frankly, is a damnable way because it’s  _so_ , so ravishing, and then Pole bites at the thin skin of Miong’s neck and murmurs, “Then you could make us breakfast, and then maybe you could fuck me again.” Another bite, followed by a kiss. “If you’re up for it, that is.”

Miong’s breath catches in his throat when Pole straddles him and rocks his hips forward, his erection rubbing against his, and  _god_ , he can’t believe this is happening. That’s Pole’s mouth on his and that’s Pole clawing at his chest and begging for more and that’s Pole panting in his ear when Miong presses slick fingers inside of him.

He flips Pole over and it doesn’t take much — Pole is already stretched and pliant from what Miong guesses was him getting fucked hard the previous night. Miong slips in easy and thrusts forward slow, enjoying each sound that spills from Pole’s lips.

It’s different than how it was before. He makes love to Pole, deliberate, and taking in everything of Pole he can hold on to because he doesn’t know how long this will last. He didn’t realize how precious Pole is to him, until he’s losing him — and actually losing him, he won’t have anything left. At least before, he had these memories.

He buries his face into Pole’s chest and tries not to cry.

“Are you okay?” Pole asks, and he rubs Miong’s back, touches his face to make him look at him. “Miong? Talk to me.”

Miong doesn’t answer, he just continues pushing into Pole until he has Pole shouting out and clutching at the sheets as he shudders against him.

They don’t talk about it as they have breakfast that Miong made for them, but later when they fuck again Pole rides Miong hard and unrelenting, like he’s trying to find that same passion that Miong had earlier. “I love you,” says Miong, and Pole tilts his head and looks at him strangely, but he keeps working himself on Miong’s cock, coming a few seconds later and groaning Miong’s name.

Later, when they’re lying against each other tired and spent, Miong says it again — “I love you.”

It’s easy to say, easier then it had ever been before.

Pole lets out a laugh, which is not the reaction that Miong had been expecting.

“I thought you said it just because of the sex,” Pole says, and then he rolls over onto his stomach and smiles. “It’s nice. You don’t say it that much.”

 _I didn’t?_  Miong goes to say, but he forgets.

 

 

“Do you know what it’s like, loving you?” Miong slurs, tipping his empty glass over as he surges to his feet it’s the first time all week he’s seen Pole, shared space with Pole, breathed in the smell of his aftershave as he scrambles to his feet. “It feels like I’m always in your shadow,” he says, lashes clinging together with tears. “It’s always me chasing after you.”

Because Pole will never be able to love Miong the way Miong loves him. That’s the only thing he knows.

 

 

Miong’s not sure when things started turning into indifference.

He wakes up to the sound of Miong puttering about in the kitchen, humming quietly under his breath as he plates dishes, and there’s a burst of something unnamed in his throat. He’d forgotten what it was like for things to be good again. What loving Pole tasted like.

The days have started feeling lighter, almost blurry in their happiness, and Miong shuffles into the kitchen on his own with a smile tugging at his lips. There’s really nowhere to sit that’s conducive to stare at Pole, so he swings himself up easily onto the counter with a yawn.

“G’morning,” he mumbles, leaning back to rest his weight on his hands.

“Hey,” Pole grins over his shoulder. The light through their apartment window breaks over the clef of his shirt, and it makes him look like he’s glowing from the inside out. Miong’s throat seizes up, forgetting the luxury of being able to commit the swell of his skeleton to memory.

Pole says something again, but Miong isn’t listening, too busy staring instead. The world goes blurry except for the shape of Pole: his lips stretching around his sentences, the gold of his skin, his fingers where he balances his chopsticks across the top of his bowl as he sets everything down on the table.

“Miong?” Pole asks, playful. He wanders up to the counter-top with a grin and slides up between Miong’s legs. He spreads his knees out further to let him in. “You okay there?”

His words are joking, light and airy and teasing and Miong knows there’s nothing more to that, but there’s a whole year of memories that he’s got rattling about his skull, and he presses his lips tight together in order not to cry. He hasn’t been this close to Pole in so long - close enough to count the sprinkle of freckles across his nose-bridge.

“Hey –  baby,” Pole says again, pressing in so his hips are flush against the granite. He slips the palm of his hand against Miong’s cheek, concerned. “Are you sick?”

Miong can feel the warmth of Pole’s palm in every nerve ending of his skin, his jaw, thumb stroking delicately across his the side of his face. He missed this and didn’t even know; didn’t even realize.

“‘M just crazy,” he sighs, eyes fluttering shut. He doesn’t need to look to know how far to turn his head to the side, pressing his lips to Pole’s wrist, his arm. “Crazy for you, Apolinario Mabini.” Pole’s eyes widen, like he wasn’t expecting him to answer.

Miong feels something helpless swell up in his chest, knowing this will be the last of the last by the end of the tonight, and hooks two fingers in the collar of Pole’s shirt to drag him down for a kiss. He catches himself on the counter before his lips slam into Miong’s, noses bumping. Then Pole tilts his head to the side, righting the angle, and leans in hesitantly, like he’s unsure if it’s is okay.

“I love you,” Miong says, pulling away first. He’s breathless in the best way, leaning forward to press his forehead against Pole’s.

“I love you, too,” he replies, like he doesn’t really believe this is happening.

Miong curls into himself, then, and burrows haplessly into the warmth of Pole’s chest, the other’s arms wrap around Miong’s shoulders to pull him close, both heartbeats going twice as fast.

They don’t speak for a long, long time.

 

 

Pole, like many things in Miong’s life, starts running away.

 

 

“You don’t understand,” Miong says, and Pole says, “I do, that’s why I’m leaving.”

Miong looks around. It’s their apartment – soon to be only Miong’s – and there are boxes Pole had hastily packed up, there’s Miong’s sweater that Pole gave back, there’s the stack of books that’s smaller without Pole’s share piled on top.

“Fine.” Miong knew it was coming. Everyone leaves him.

Pole lets out a shaky breath and his lip trembles and he looks absolutely broken but then he recovers fast and he frown and his eyes grow stormy and now, now Miong knows that Pole had wanted Miong to fight for him. To take a stand. To let him know he was worth it.

“No! Fuck, I’m sorry, come back,” Miong says, but that’s not how it happened, it’s too late to change it, history cannot be rewritten, and Pole slams the door shut behind him.

 

 

“Happy birthday, Miong,” Pole says quietly, like he’s embarrassed about the whole situation, the entire day a mess of dodging their friends and shaken up bottles of cola. He holds out a box and looks away, and his cheeks are red.

Miong takes the present from him and looks at it for a moment. It’s a decent weight, nothing particular, and then back at Pole: his chest seizing up.

“Pole,” he says numbly, fingers fumbling on the bow. “You didn’t have to, you know?”

“But I wanted to,” Pole replies, twisting his hands together. “You’re 25 already. That’s old.”

Miong twists in his seat, both their knees knocking together. “You’re  _older_  than me.”

“Well,” he says, purposely thoughtful, “How does it feel?”

“How does what feel?”

“To be dating a grandpa.”

“I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully, kissing the corner of Pole’s mouth. “Depends on if he’s willing to fuck after this or not.”

Pole pulls a face, disgusted, Miong dissolves into laughter as he pulls him into the couch.

 

 

When Miong wakes up, the sun cutting a streak across his face, something like panic sits in his chest. He remembers this day so, so clearly, like stepping backwards into the scuff marks his shoes left on the kitchen tiles. Pole’s stupid apartment, shitty apartment neither of them have bothered to clean up properly.

Pole’s humming something in the bathroom, the door ajar and framing his figure as he brushes his teeth with almost single-minded focus. He’s got one hand combing through his hair, hips swaying as he hums to the tune of the music.

“Hey,” he garbles around his toothbrush, spitting into the sink he rinses his mouth out and leans against the doorframe. “What are you thinking about?”

Miong’s chest aches at the sight of him.

“You,” he says honestly.

Pole’s eyes soften, and he moves to climb under the covers with Miong. He breathes the scent of Pole in, how he hasn’t shaved yet and his mouth is glistening cherry red in the semi-bright bedroom.

“You’re going to have to hide me somewhere,” Pole says eventually, lips damp.

“Where?”

“I don’t know,” Pole admits, closing his eyes “I’m sorry.”

 

 

They’ve been making out for the better part of an hour now.

Miong can’t quiet catch his breath and Pole’s lips are swollen, hickeys trailing down past the overstretched collar of his shirt. He hears their friend yelling in the living room, but Pole’s locked his door to keep them out, shaking hands fisted in the sheets as he hovers over Miong’s wider frame, leaning down the press their cheeks together.

“Better?” Miong asks, even as the sound of limbs hacked off breaks through the silence. Pole winces, but nods, rolling over to collapse on his side and tuck his face into the crook of Miong’s neck. He murmurs something unintelligible, and Miong turns to sling an arm around his waist.

Pole’s hand has slipped its way underneath Miong’s shirt by now, and his palm is splayed how around the curve of his spine. It’s a vulnerable place to be held, but Miong looks at Pole and all he can think is “this could be love”.

That’s when it’s over for him. That’s when he dies.

 

 

You cannot catch sunlight, even between closed fingers.

This: Miong had forgotten.

 

 

“So, Jose’s friend, huh,” Andoy says, dropping down in the chair next to Miong.

“Jose’s friend,” he agrees miserably, watching Pole give Juan a half-hearted hug.

“He’s cute.”

“I know,” Miong moans, covering his face with both hands. His cheeks are flaming. He feels uncomfortably warm, even Tonio’s relatively spacious apartment, his leather couch, and his air conditioned living room. Miong is going to die here; he knows it, death by spontaneous combustion for sure.

“I think you’d be cute together.”

“Fuck off, Andres,” he says. He doesn’t see the look Pole shoots him, a look of concern of his face. “Go die.”

“You’re so rude to me, Miong,” Andoy says, dumping the rest of his water down Miong’s shirt when he gets off the couch.

 

 

“You‘re gonna ask about the scars?” Miong says, words brittle. Pole looks up to meet his eyes, surprised.

“No, I – I was going to say that your shirt looks good on you,” he says, already turning away, “But it’s, uh, it’s whatever.”

Shit.

“Wait,” Miong says, not entirely of his own volition. His arm shoots out to catch Pole’s elbow and both of them freeze at the touch. This wasn’t how it was. Miong doesn’t know why he’s doing this now. Even the memory of Pole seems to realize that things are going wrong. “Don’t go.”

“What?”

“I should have said it before,” he cuts off, “On your birthday, when we fought; I should have told you.”

“Uh…”

“I didn’t want you to leave,” he admits, voice breaking. “I can’t watch you walk away from me again, Pole. Just stay, please, just until I have to go again.”

“ _Emilio_  –“ he tries.

“I’m sorry for letting us get distant. I’m sorry for not trying, I do want to be there for you, and I wasn’t when I should have been. I didn’t fix things when I should have, and the one thing I hate the most is seeing you leave me behind and. I shouldn’t have been like that. I was jealous and angry at things I couldn’t change anymore, I –“

“Miong,” Pole bursts out, closing the distance between them as he crushes him into a hug. “Stop,” he breathes. Miong knows this is just a memory, but it’s so vivid and it’s real and he fists his hands up Pole’s sweater and let’s himself  _pretend_ , if just for a moment. “You’re not supposed to be telling me this now.”

 _But you’re going to be gone when I wake up_ , he wants to say, but can’t get the words out of his throat.  _I’m never going to see you again, Pole. I won’t remember where you live. I won’t remember you exist_.

“I’m sorry.”

Pole smiles. Miong can hardly see him in the shadows. He catches a glimpse of Pole’s nose, a devious flash of his dark eyes, his mouth pressed into a grim, knowing line.

“What do I do now?” Miong asks. Pole always had a plan. He remembers that much.

Miong shivers when Pole places a hand on his shoulder as he leans in close and whispers, “Meet me in Bolinao.” Miong takes a sharp breath, like he’s been shot, and says, “I’ll see you on the other side.”

“What?” Miong asks, but then –

 

* * *

 

 

(“And deleted,” a new voice says sadly, looking up at the technician for confirmation.

“Looks good,” he replies, starting to pack up the equipment. “We should go before he wakes up.”

“But he’ll be alone if we do.”

The technician pauses, fingers stilling on a wire.

“Yes,” he agrees softly, nodding his head. “He’ll be alone.”

Manuel’s expression is conflicted. “I don’t like that.”

“Why?” Marcelo asks, like he’s done this a thousand times before. “He won’t be sad, Nonong. He just lost everything he’s felt with Pole… ever.”

“You can still miss people you don’t know,” Manuel murmurs, brushing Miong’s brush off his forehead. “Isn’t that sad to you?”)

 

* * *

 

 

Bolinao looks pretty at dawn.

Miong stands by the shore that overlooks the beach. He had woke up from his slumber with a clear feeling – that if he came here, everything would make sense, that his wait would be worth it.

But if anything, everything feels more confusing, uncertain.

Miong lets out an exasperated sigh and tears his gaze away from the ocean, and that’s the first time when he sees someone looking at him.

The sky is a hammock of warm colored clouds above their heads as Miong sits himself on a line of rocks.

The person staring at him is a few feet away sitting crossed legged from where he is and Miong immediately recognizes him – it’s the same guy that had been on the bus this morning. There’s a moment when their eyes meet that makes Miong choke on his own breath, but then the guy quickly looks away and goes back to reading a book that’s open in his lap. A few more minutes pass – the sun is fully in the sky now – and Miong and the guy play look-at-each-other-but-don’t-let-the-other-see game until the guy has had enough and shuts his book and saunters over Miong.

The guy sits next to Miong and asks, “What are you doing here today?”

Miong frowns. “I’m not reallu sure,” he says, because any amount of truth would sound crazy, and he doesn’t want the guy’s first impression of him to be total weirdo. He shrugs, trying to be nonchalant. “How about you?”

The guy shivers, which emphasizes the crinkle around his eyes. He looks away, and Miong watches as a whole range of expressions pass over the guy’s face. He looks troubled, like he’s contemplating the mysteries of the universe and he can’t make sense of anything. Eventually, he turns back to Miong, squints, and says, “You’re not going to believe me.”

“Try me.” Miong doubts that the guy’s reason is the same of his own.

The guys eyes go wide,  _like okay, here you go, you asked for it_ , and takes a deep breath and says, “I think I was supposed to come here, on this specific day, at sunrise. It’s destiny, I guess.” He pauses and looks suspiciously at Miong before continuing. “I know this will sound insane but I –“

“Dreamed it,” Miong says at the same time as the guy.

Miong tried not to say it, not to admit it, but it came spilling out, and now the guy won’t stop looking at him. It’s like Miong has his full attention now, and Miong can’t escape it.

“God, you too?” the guys asks, and Miong nods.

The guy grins, and  _wow_ , even though he looks dead tired his smile his dazzling. Blinding, almost, and it catches Miong off guard because damn it, he’s actually a little in awe of this strange guy because he’s gorgeous – not just in the conventional sense, because he is, much so, but also because he gives off an infectious vibrant energy so great that it leaves Miong breathless.

Suddenly, this guy is the loveliest thing on this Bolinao beach.

When Miong fades back, the guy is saying how happy he is that it isn’t just  _him_  and he’s rambling, and he’s showing Miong pages and pages and pages of cramped writing in his notebook, explains diagrams to him, describes the meaning of every notes.

There’s something familiar about him that Miong can’t place his finger on, a buzzing in his chest.

“Do I know you?” Miong asks.

“Impossible.” The guy raises his eyebrows and says, “Your face is not a face I would forget.”

 _Nice_ , Miong thinks, and normally he would roll his eyes at that type of thing but he’s totally and utterly charmed.

“I’m Emilio Aguinaldo.” Miong extends his hand out to the guy, who shoves his notebook under his arm so he can take Miong’s hand between both of his.

“Apolinario Mabini,” the guy says, and Miong softly laughs because this morning keeps getting stranger.

“What?” Apolinario asks. “What’s so funny?”

Miong shakes his head. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he pauses, and then, “Pepe – he talks about you all the time.”

Apolinario cringes. “What did he say about me?”

“Nothing you should be worried about.”

“ _God_ , stop that,” Apolinario says with a guffaw, and waves his hand in a dismissive gesture.

And the thing is – Miong wants to continue to know more about this random guy he was lucky enough to meet at dawn.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Miong asks. “Coffee?”

Apolinario smiles. “That would be really nice.”

There’s a shift in the tension. The start of something new.

**Author's Note:**

> sad streaks  
> im @deipiiar on twt


End file.
